


Scraps of Shoe Leather

by loracarol



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Bad Things Happen Bingo, F/M, Gen, Post-Canon, Universe Alteration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-07 00:17:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15897057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loracarol/pseuds/loracarol
Summary: Uploading by Bad Things Happen Bingo fics here. Some are werewolf AU, some aren't - each will be noted in the chapter notes.May upload some other drabbles here, depending on how long they end up being.





	1. Caught in a Snare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Canon | Bad Things Happen Bingo | Caught in a Snare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expectation spoilers for future werewolf au chapters: Urpgbe fgvyy gheaf vagb n jbys qhevat shyy zbbaf. Vzryqn oebhtug uvz “onpx”, ohg ur'f fgvyy n jrerjbys, grpuavpnyyl fcrnxvat.

Héctor had gotten better at handling the nights of the full moon; while he still hated the lack of control that came with the shift from one from to the other, he could  _handle_  it. Mostly. It helped that his family was there, grounding him, keeping him from slipping to much into wolf mind, and wolf instincts. While some of them could be useful, he didn’t want to lose himself - not again. 

 

What didn’t help were that some of the instincts were just plain  _ridiculous._ Take the idea of a territory, for example. He was just one man, (even if he was a wolf some of the time), he had a house, he had his family, he didn’t need to lay claim to  _all of Santa Cecilia._

 

But whatever instincts bubbled up and refused to vanish were the ones insisting that this was  _his_ territory - all of it. Thankfully he didn’t have to  _do_ much; there weren’t any other wolves in the area he had to defend “his” territory from. He could usually sleep easy by doing a circle around the town, leaving scratch marks in the dirt and in the trees that left his scent. (The need to scent mark in general was the worst - it made him feel like even less human then he did already.) 

 

* * *

 

 

At first he had tried to stay indoors all night every night during the full moon, to quash down the instincts, and to be a good husband - a good  _man_. And it had worked, for a time,  _being home,_  being with  _family_ , he was able to focus on that, and it  _did_  help. 

 

But he had started to get anxious, a feeling that didn’t quite go away when he was human the next morning. He had been tense, waiting for…  _Something_. He didn’t know what, but it was coming. Imelda had found him pacing in the courtyard, the next full moon, as he tried to work off his nervous energy before the night was up, but - heaven help him - he wanted to  _run_. 

 

He didn’t know long Imelda had been watching him from the doorway - while he had known immediately when she’d shown up, he wasn’t very good at keeping track of time. He tried to calm down, tried to resist the nervous energy coursing through his veins - It was early in the morning, and Imelda should have been in bed, sleeping, not staying up and watching him pace like a mad thing. 

 

Eventually she had moved until she was standing close enough to run one hand through the thick fur near his ears. He leaned into the touch, as much as he could without tipping her over. 

 

“Héctor,” she had said, voice barely louder then a whisper. “If I leave the back gate unlocked, can you open it?”

 

He could, easily. He didn’t have hands for the locking mechanism, but the gate was simple enough. Though he had to admit, he wondered why.

 

“Try not to let people see you,” Imelda had continued, hand shaking as she continued to dig her fingers into the soft fur at Héctor’s head, “And be home before Coco wakes up, I’m  _begging_ you.” 

 

Héctor had wanted to stay, to prove he was capable of  _choosing_  what to do, instead of feeling forced by whatever bits in his self that were no longer human, but getting permission was too much for him to turn down. He nuzzled her hand gently, then turned and  _ran_  for the gate, Imelda chasing after him to unlock it. She needn’t have bothered, as he’d jumped the wall easily. 

 

And he had been home before Coco woke up. 

 

He was always home before Coco woke up. 

 

He  _would always be home for Coco_. He had left them already too many times, he couldn’t leave them again. 

 

* * *

 

 

He would always be home for Coco - he had  _promised_ , and yet… 

 

Someone had set up a snare in the forests around Santa Cecilia. 

 

Made to go around a smaller animal’s neck, Héctor had stepped inside it, and accidentally set it off. His first thought had been to panic as the snare tightened it’s grip around his foot. Made of wire, whoever had made it had technically done a good job; it was strong, far stronger then the snares normally used for hunting, and while Héctor was strong, the snare had been there a while, and it had tree roots keeping it in place. 

 

He couldn’t help the whine that exited his throat as he struggled, and the faint scent of copper began to fill the air. It was that that brought him to a halt; struggling would only tighten the loop. He  _knew_  that, what was  _wrong_  with him?

 

Well, he knew the answer to that too.  

 

Turning, he tried to remove the cable with his teeth, but his were too large, and his claws weren’t much better. His ears went back as he started to panic; the only thing he could think was to wait until sunrise, and either hope that he was able to get his foot out then without any trouble, or finally get proper hands with proper fingers and undo the snare then. 

 

What a mess! There’d be no guarantee that he’d be home before Coco woke up, nor any that he’d be able to sneak into town unnoticed. He had broken his promise to Imelda  _again_. And even if it was unintentional - he’d hurt her enough. Did his intentions matter?

 

He started to gnaw again at the cord, at his foot, at  _anything_  to get it off so he could get home. He wasn’t quiet about it; what was the point? It was far too early in the morning for it to matter. The sun hadn’t even risen yet, and he  _had_  to get home. 

 

There was a shift in the scent in the air, and then there were people coming. It didn’t matter who they were, he was  _really_  in trouble now, because people would shoot at him, they’d chase him and they’d make him forget, and then Imelda would be sad again and it would be all his fault - 

 

“Héctor?” The voice said, and Héctor turned, his own blood still smeared across his muzzle. Behind him stood Imelda’s brothers, and while he normally could tell them apart, he wasn’t in the mood to try and figure which one had spoke, and which one was holding up the light. 

 

“What  _happened_?” One of them said, and for a moment there was a war brewing inside Héctor between the bits that needed  _help_  and the bits that wanted the two to  _leave him alone_. He  _knew_  that they wouldn’t hurt him; they seemed to like him well enough, but what if  _he_  hurt  _them_?

 

“Easy, easy,” a twin - Oscar? - was saying, and Héctor realized he had been growling. He forced himself to stop, and instead lay down. He was tempted to roll over, show he wasn’t going to hurt them, but the snare on his back foot and his proximity to the tree would have made that difficult. Instead, he made sure his tail was tucked under, and did everything he could to be  _smaller, to apologize._

 

Felipe cursed, as he moved around Héctor and saw the snare. “Héctor, can we take this off of you?” He was moving slowly, they both were, and Héctor could practically smell their fear. He nodded his head as best he could, before curling up as best he could so that his maw was hidden. He wasn’t sure what had driven them to search for him - had he really been gone that long? - but he couldn’t help but be grateful as they worked on the snare. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Oscar said, coming up to the front, “but I think we’ll need some special tools to get this off of you.” 

 

Héctor let out a low whine. 

 

“But Felipe and I think we can cut the snare out of the tree,” Oscar continued, giving Héctor a brief, tentative pat on the head, “So we can at least get you home.” 

 

Héctor wagged his tail in gratitude. He knew it wasn’t exactly wolf behavior, but he’d been watching the dogs in Santa Cecelia to get an idea of how he should behave around people. The twins seemed to understand, and they kept digging at the point where the snare had gotten stuck. 

 

“We’ve got it,” Felipe finally said, “Can you walk?” 

 

Héctor stood up as best as he could on only three legs. He was fine, he could do it. He stumbled a bit, when he put his weight down on the snared foot, forgetting, but he righted himself shortly after. 

 

“You’re usually home by now,” Felipe said, after they’d been walking for some time. 

 

“We were worried,” Oscar admitted, light turned down once they reached the main road, and the light of the full moon. The sky was starting to lighten; dawn would be coming soon. Héctor hated the full moon, but he thanked his lucky stars for family like the twins. 

 

After all, thanks to them, Héctor would be home like he promised. 

 

(And hopefully Imelda wouldn’t be  _too_  upset about the snare.) 

 


	2. Doesn't Realize They've Been Injured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Canon | Bad Things Happen Bingo | Doesn't Realize They've Been Injured

It’s not that Héctor didn’t feel pain, not exactly; but after as many years as it had been since he was truly Remembered, pain just… Wasn’t worth paying attention to. The truth was, he’d gotten used to constantly being in pain. It was the background noise of his life. Sometimes it cut through, mostly when he was being hit by the glow of being Forgotten, but the rest of the time? So what if his leg was broken, or his arm, or that he just crashed into the ground because he didn’t feel like taking the stairs. 

 

It wasn’t pain, it just…  _Was_. 

 

Even after Coco began to remember, and to share his story, that didn’t make it go  _away_ , not immediately. So when the de la Cruz fan hit from behind with a bottle, he didn’t do more then blink. It hurt yes, but when did he not? (And maybe things were starting to hurt a little less, as Coco remembered him, and shared her stories, but it had been a long,  _long_ time.)

 

Instead, he gave his statement to the police - the man was kind enough to stick around and give his version of events, (with much cursing and screaming), before turning down their recommendations that he see a doctor. He’d had worse, probably. Instead, he just put on his hat, and began to head for the Rivera household - his home, maybe? Everything was still so new, he wasn’t sure if it was his home or not just yet, but they’d invited him in. He was running late for dinner, so he hurried, and ignored the pain in his skull. He thought he’d been feeling better, but maybe Coco was having a bad memory day. She was one hundred years old, he couldn’t really blame her for that. 

 

Imelda was waiting for him in the doorway, and for a moment he was struck dumb by the way that the setting sun hit her bones with soft oranges and pinks. What color is the sky indeed? His second thought was that he needed to stop doing this to her, even if it  _really_  wasn’t his fault this time. 

 

“Héctor…” She started, but he interrupted, trying to explain - to apologize.

 

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, taking his hat off, and holding it in front of him like a shield, “I missed my trolley. I had to walk ho - here.” It wasn’t enough, it would  _never_  be enough, but at least he had made it home… Right? 

 

Imelda frowned, still as beautiful as ever, but she relaxed, just a little, and moved out of the way to let him in. As he passed he thought that maybe he did okay, maybe the night would be a good one, when he heard a strangled “Héctor-!” And turned to see Imelda staring at him with shock? Fear? “What happened?” She lifted one of her hands up to his face, and gently brushed his wig aside near the place where his ears once were. He froze at the touch, still not used to that sort of kindness, not from Imelda, and the words tumbled out of his throat before he could stop them. 

 

“I ran into one of  _his_  fans,” he said, and that was all he needed to say as her expression became downright thunderous. 

 

“Where are they?” Imelda snapped, looking like she had every intention of summoning Pepita and tearing the man to shreds. 

 

“He’s already been taken into custody,” Héctor said, trying to calm her down. “And it’s not like it  _actually_ hurts. He was just trying to make an example, but I’m okay.” 

 

Imelda stared at him, head tilted, mouth pursed. “Héctor,” she began, speaking in a tone that made it easy to tell that she trying very hard to keep her voice level. “What do you think you mean by “okay”.” 

 

Héctor shrugged, “It doesn’t hurt very much? He hazarded, wondering what Imelda was seeing. “It’s really not that bad.” 

 

“Your skull has cracks in it.” Imelda said flatly, “Turn around.”

 

Héctor turned, confused. It really  _wasn’t that bad_ … Was it? 

 

“You also have glass shards in your hair,” Imelda said, in that same flat tone. She lifted his wig, checking underneath for injuries. “ _Dios mío_ ,” she breathed, fear coloring her tone. “I’m taking you to the doctor,  _now_.” Before Héctor could argue against that, Imelda was yelling to the rest of the house, and leading him to a chair in the sala where she promptly sat him down. Her hands were shaking, and Héctor couldn’t really think of why; it wasn’t, he wasn’t  _that_ injured. Was he? 

 

“What’s going on?” Rosita asked, as she rushed in from the dining room where she’d been setting the table. Shortly after her followed the rest of the family, and they all stood staring at Héctor and Imelda curiously. 

 

“Héctor has been injured.” She declared, arms crossed, “So I’m taking him to the doctor. We won’t be in for dinner.” 

 

“It’s not  _that_ bad,” Héctor tried to argue. It was supposed to be a  _nice_  night; he wasn’t going to it be ruined on his behalf! 

 

“Your have a skull fracture.” Imelda snapped, “I hope you were planning on pressing charges against that-” She cut herself off, scowling. 

 

“How did-”

 

“-That happen?” 

 

“I ran into a de la Cruz fan,” Héctor said, bewildered by the looks he was receiving from the other Riveras. There was anger, but also sadness, and even Victoria looked shocked. He hoped they weren’t angry at  _him_. “He had a bottle?” He shrank in on himself as even  _Julio_  let out a string of obscenities. “I’m sorry?” He tried, flabbergasted by their response. 

 

“ _Don’t_  be sorry,” Imelda snapped, “I’m taking him to Dr. Gómez, we’ll try this again tomorrow.” 

 

Héctor opened his mouth to say something, but one look at Imelda and he shut it again. She looked  _worried_ , worried about  _him_. If taking him to the doctor would clear the worry from her gaze, he’d go to a million doctors. 

 

As the family began to clear out, to help unset the table, and put the food away, Imelda turned to him, quietly asking, “How are you feeling?”

 

“I don’t feel that bad.” Héctor admitted, worrying the brim of his hat.

 

“How are you  _really_  feeling?”

 

“That  _is_  how I’m really feeling.” He paused, trying to find the words to make her understand. “I’m used to  _this_ , this injury isn’t anything, you know,  _special_.” He was trying to make her feel better, trying to make her understand that she didn’t need to be worried, but as her face fell, he cringed. That hadn’t been the right thing, had it? “I’ll go to the doctor,” he said instead, standing up, and wondering if he dared touch her. Even just a hand hold, so she would know he was okay. 

 

“Yes, you will.” Imelda said, drawing up. “Let’s go get Pepita.” 


	3. Food Poisoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Werewolf AU | Bad Things Happen Bingo | Food Poisoning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: This chapter contains some mentions of disordered eating habits

The thing about being a wolf was that food was never guaranteed. Now, the same goes for humans, technically speaking, but a wolf’s diet is more limited, and a wolf as big as Héctor was needed a  _lot_  more food then normal. If he came across something to eat, he had to eat it as soon as possible and not waste it. He could go days, if not weeks hungry, just because food was scarce, or because what he’d found was  _barely_  enough.

 

When he got home, he tried so hard not to let it still be a thing, he  _did_ , but sometimes… Sometimes it was harder then others. One time Imelda brought home some empanadas that had been a gift from Señora Pérez, and they were supposed to last multiple days. Héctor had finished them off that night, the only thought echoing through his mind being that there was  _food_  and he needed to eat as much as possible until the next time-!

 

Imelda had found him the next morning, retching outside and trying to explain why he was so  _afraid_. 

 

At least, things were getting better. On that front. He could rationally look at a pile of food and acknowledge that there would be some more the next day, and it was  _okay_ , it was  _safe_  not to gorge himself.  

 

But what still tripped him up was throwing food out. 

 

He was used to, after all, eating anything he could get his mouth on. It didn’t matter if the meat was old, if it was “bad” by human standards, a wolf could eat it without problems. 

 

The meat he’d eaten was maybe a little bit off. Maybe a lot off to the others, but to him it was… Fine. Not delicious, but edible. Mostly. He’d torn off all the bits that were obviously rotten, and eaten the rest, and he’d been okay. 

 

 _Had_  been okay. 

 

He wanted everything to stop; the pain in his stomach, the retching, the… Everything. 

 

He also wanted Imelda, but he had forbidden the twins from telling her what was going on. She had business to run that day; he wasn’t going to burden her with something that was his own damn fault. Instead, he shivered, alone with a bucket, and hoped the pain would pass. 

 

He almost passed out there, in the bathroom with his bucket. He knelt, forehead against the wall in silent supplication to the goddess that controlled the bucket. In theory, he needed to drink some water. He could vaguely remember the doctor saying that that was important, the first time Coco had taken ill. But he couldn’t bare to get up, and he was afraid it would just come right up anyway. Time stopped having meaning in that bathroom, as he sat there, and tried to remind himself that death was not an answer to his suffering. He just hurt  _so much_. 

 

The door opened, and Héctor had to squint to see who it was. It was Imelda. Of course it was. Héctor made a mental note to do… Something about it. He was too exhausted to think of what. 

 

“What happened?” Imelda asked, putting one cool wrist against his forehead. 

 

“Evil meal.” Héctor groaned, before retching again. Thankfully there was nothing left. 

 

Imelda had brought him a glass of water, and he drank it with gratitude, the cool liquid helping to sooth his sore throat. When he was done, Imelda took the glass, and stood up. “Héctor, can you walk? I think you’ll be more comfortable in bed.” She asked, ready to help him up. 

 

“I don’t want to.” Héctor grumbled, but he stood, using the wall for support. The world tilted for a moment, but Imelda was there, and she caught him. “Sorry,” he said, the word coming from far away. “You’re at      work. Told the     twins nottotalk.”

 

Imelda shushed him, before leading him to bed, and helping him shuck his sweat soaked garments. The brought in a clean bucket, and some water, “Do you think you’ll be okay?” She asked, wiping his forehead. 

 

 

“Nooooooooooo.” Héctor said. “Maybe.” 

 

“You’re going to be fine.” Imelda insisted, “And then we’re going to talk about why you thought it would be a good idea to eat food I’d  _specifically_  thrown out.”

 

Héctor groaned, but he had to agree. If he was going to be a person again, he was going to have to relearn  _all_ the rules. And if learning the rules meant he didn’t get sick like this again? It would be worth it.  


	4. Fevers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon "Missing Scene" | Bad Things Happen Bingo | Fevers

Imelda couldn’t actually remember the last time she’d felt so stressed. Between her photo not being up, Miguel getting cursed, running into Héctor, finding out Héctor had been murdered, Héctor almost dying in her arms… It had been a  _very_  long night. 

 

And her body, curse it, remembered how she’d fall ill sometimes, when the stress wore her down. That was one of the few problems about being one of the well remembered; when you had everyone else’s memory focused on keeping you “alive”, for lack of a better term, and “together”, it was easier for your own memory to effect  _how_  your afterlife was going. 

 

And Imelda’s memory was telling her she was going to fall ill, so she did. She held it together until they were home, until statements had been given, and Héctor had a room of his own set up in their household. (After everything, and seeing how weak he was, she refused to let him out of their sight. It didn’t help that he could barely walk, let alone make it home.) She made it through all that before the chills struck her hard enough that she couldn’t ignore them. 

 

She knew, technically speaking, that she wasn’t sick, and she could work through it if need be. That the cold she was feeling was just a trick of her mind, that she wasn’t really ill. But that night really had been very stressful, and she didn’t know if she had the emotional energy to fight back against the surge of memory. Instead, she decided to indulge. Once Héctor was situated, and the family had dispersed, she took a long  _hot_  shower. She put on her warmest nightgown, and piled on the blankets, and yet - 

 

She still felt cold. 

 

But this was a different type of cold. This was the cold of being alone in her bed. Of  _missing_  another person, of missing  _Héctor_. She could remember the days after he left with vivid clarity, and having him in the same house as her, but the two of them being apart… It  _hurt_. 

 

It was still too early to ask for that sort of intimacy, if he even wanted it, but as Imelda shivered under her covers, she wished desperately that she wasn’t alone. 

 

There was a knock at her door, and she heard her brothers’ on the other side, asking if she was alright. She wasn’t, but she couldn’t just  _tell_  them that. She tried to sit up, to shove the blankets to the side so it wasn’t obvious she was using all of them. She needn’t have bothered, after how long they’d lived together, they knew the signs. Oscar had a pitcher of cool water, and a cup. Felipe had brought a hot water bottle, and a cool cloth for her forehead. 

 

She wanted to cry, but she couldn’t. Not in front of them.. Her brothers’ had always been so good to her, better then Héc -  but that wasn’t fair, was it? He had been murdered, he had wanted to come home, and he had been killed for that. 

 

She could remember times when she’d been sick, and he’d cared for her, playing a gentle guitar melody to lull her to sleep, making sure the blankets were tucked in, keeping Coco cared for. 

 

She couldn’t ask that of it, not that she deserved it, even if he was feeling better. 

 

She thanked her brothers, and sent them back out, curling up with the water bottle, and piling on the blankets, and then, only then, did she weep, using the cool cloth to wipe away her tears. Luckily, she could never remember a stress-illness lasting more then a day. She’d be good the next day, to reopen the shop, to finish orders, and to try and figure out what to do with the musician in the spare room. 

 

But until then, she finally allowed herself to grieve.


	5. Passing out from Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Werewolf AU | Bad Things Happen Bingo | Passing out from Pain

It was embarrassing - Imelda hadn’t passed out before, not even when Coco had been born, but she’d caught her foot on something - the table leg? When she’d left the table, and she had been  _twisting_  at the time. The next thing she knew, she was on the floor, she was in pain, and Héctor was sitting next to her, eyes wide. He was whining, the noise coming out of his throat almost subconsciously, as he waited for her to wake up. 

 

There were other people at the edges of the room; Oscar and Felipe were pressed against the wall, looking nervous. It probably had to do with the way that Héctor growled when they tried to come any closer. Now that they’d gotten used to his quirks, it wasn’t as scary as it first had been, but Imelda knew it had to be unsettling. 

 

“Héctor, let them in,” she whispered, ignoring the pain radiating down her leg. Héctor gave her a look, then nodded, lying down beside her. It was silly, they probably look ridiculous, but Imelda could understand the impulse. 

 

The twins walked slowly in, but Héctor stayed silent, ducking his head as they moved in closer. “Thank you,” Imelda said, scratching him behind the ear. It felt silly to do that to her husband, but he seemed to enjoy it. The twins helped get her up, and get her to bed, Héctor following along silently. Imelda wanted to send him for the doctor, but in the state he was in, she knew it would be a bad idea. Instead, she sent out her brother, hoping that the doctor would be in before Coco got back from vising her friend’s house; she didn’t need her  _whole_ family fussing over her. 

 

Héctor paced, and Imelda hoped it hadn’t looked too bad. She could remember how (over)protective he’d been after Coco had been born… And that was before Ernesto’s little trick. 

 

“Estoy bien,” she said, swallowing hard. “Está bien.” He didn’t believe her, that much was obvious, but Imelda hoped Héctor could at least cool down before the doctor came. She didn’t want to have to explain…  _Héctor_ … When all she wanted was to get looked at, and get some rest.  _Dios mío_  what a day it was shaping out to be. 


	6. Self Loathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Universe Alteration | Bad Things Happen Bingo | Self Loathing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #Shrug Emoji

The letter reached Imelda five months after Héctor had left on his tour, and a month and a half since the last one. He had never gone that long between letters; the longest had been two weeks, and that was because it had gotten lost in the mail. At first, she had tried to ignore the pang in her heart at the wait, tried to believe it was just a mistake, that the post had lost his letters again. And then, finally, _something_. Except… It wasn’t written in his hand; instead written in a flowery script that _screamed_ feminine to Imelda’s eyes, and it said… _Dios_ what it said...  

 

 

_Dear Imelda,_

_Something has happened, and I can no longer be the husband you need me to be. If you want a divorce, I’ll give it to you. Anything you want. I hope you can forgive me._

_I’m sorry._

_Héctor_

 

 

She wanted to tear the letter to shreds, to burn it, then burn the ashes- to _ruin_ the letter until it said anything else. She settled for crushing the paper in her hands as she tried not to cry frustrated tears. It had only been _five months_. The letter had included some money, but that didn’t make up for the utter _betrayal_ that the letter implied. There was a return address on the envelope, the letters ‘HGM,’ and as she tapped her fingers on the table, she contemplated going out there to give Héctor a piece of her mind. If he wanted to betray her, to divorce her, he had to look her in the eyes and ask. Not send her a letter like a _coward_.   

 

But could they afford it?

 

Héctor had sent more money than usual - was he trying to buy her off? As she recounted the bills, she made up her mind. If her brothers’ could watch Coco and the fledgling zapatería, she could just afford a round trip train ticket. There wasn’t enough money for a hotel, so she’d have to time her trip very carefully. If Héctor was no longer in Mexico City, she wouldn’t be able to afford chasing after him. She needed to _know_.

 

Dinner was silent, Imelda’s mood infecting the whole table  although she Imelda made sure not to speak about Héctor in front of Coco, who was too young to be hearing about Imelda’s suspicions. Instead, she waited until Coco was in bed, trying to ignore the faint song through the closed door. Was Héctor also singing that song like he promised? Or was he somewhere, singing a _different_ sort of tune. Her brothers were in the kitchen waiting for her, and she threw the letter down on the table for them to read. It only took a moment; ;she could see their eyes widen as they took in the message and all it implied.

 

Oscar stood, and pulled Imelda into a hug, with Felipe not even a half step behind. “That cabrón!” Felipe spat, Oscar nodding in agreement.

 

“So it reads the same to you as it did to me?” she asked shakily. She knew how _she_ interpreted the letter, but as the night went on, a part of her had hoped she was reading more into it then she had to. The affirmations from her brothers overlapped, and she nodded. “I’m going to Mexico City. Tomorrow morning if I can get a ticket. If he wants a divorce, he needs to say it to my face.”

 

\-----

 

Despite her plans, she didn’t end up leaving for Mexico City for two days; the first day was spent getting a ticket and making sure the shop could survive a day without her. As angry as she was, there was still work to do and she wasn’t going to let Héctor keep her from it. The train ride was uneventful, and Imelda almost wished something would happen just to keep her from ruminating on the letter in her bag. She’d brought some busywork - some small bits of mending she could do on the train, but still her thoughts ran wild.

 

It was a relief to finally arrive in Mexico City. Though she’d never been before, at least she had a goal she could work towards; something she could put her mind to. Anything to get the picture of Héctor and another woman out of her head.

 

“Perdón,” she asked one of the station clerks. When the man looked to her, she showed him the envelope. “Can you tell me how to get to this address?”

 

The clerk took a look over the envelope, then he nodded, tapping the _HGM_ on the envelope. Imelda had ignored it, assuming those were the writer’s initials. “You mean the hospital. It’s not too far, go down this street until you cross a bridge, then...” He gave her directions, but Imelda only just barely heard.

 

 _Hospital_?

 

Hurrying down the bustling streets, Imelda tried not to panic too much. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he’d fallen for a pretty young nurse. Maybe that was just the closest place to send letters from. And still the words echoed.

 

_I’m sorry._

 

Her heart beating fast enough she swore the world could hear, she tried not to run - but it was _very_ tempting.  

 

\-----

 

The hospital was on a quiet, tucked away street, and Imelda approached it with trepidation. All of her anger was starting to crash into waves and waves of fear. Why was Héctor’s letter coming from _this_ address?

 

“Excuse me,” she asked the front desk. The nurse on duty was a pretty young thing, and Imelda couldn’t stop the stab of envy. “I’m looking for my… for Héctor Rivera. I got a letter from him, and this was the return address?”

 

“Are you Imelda?” the nurse asked. “Héctor talks about you all the time. We didn’t know you were coming.” She looked exhausted, and Imelda tried not to imagine how many people the hospital was caring for.

 

“Well, I’m here now,” Imelda said, arms crossed. “And I want to see him.” Anger was easier to project then fear.

 

“This way.”

 

As they walked through the halls, Imelda’s fear grew. What was Héctor doing in this place? Why had his letter been so short?

 

“He’s in there,” the nurse said. Imelda wondered how the nurse could tell which room was which. To her, the hallway seemed to stretch on for miles, and every doorway was the same. “ _Please_ let us know when you’re taking him home.”

 

“I will,” Imelda said, hand on the doorknob. Pausing before she opened, she took a deep breath. Whatever was beyond the doorway, she could handle it. She had made a vow before God to marry Héctor in sickness and in health, and as long as Héctor wasn’t there with someone else, she could handle it.

 

“Who’s there?” came a familiar voice, and she almost wept from relief at having found him. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed that voice - missed _him_. He was looking right at her and she expected, just for a moment, for him to recognize her, for him to _acknowledge_ her. Then she took in the rest of him, and while tears did come, they were no longer tears of happiness. There were scars, harsh and ugly across his face in a grotesque parody of a blindfold. Bands of red tore across his face, pulling the skin tightly in unnatural patches, and it held the texture of old leather.

 

And his eyes… They hadn’t been spared by the burns. What had once been a beautiful deep brown was instead coated with a film of white.

 

“I asked _who’s there_?” Héctor snapped, and Imelda froze in the doorway. Héctor _never_ snapped like that. Except… With those burns… _Madre de Dios_.

 

 _He couldn’t see her_.

 

“It’s me, Héctor,” Imelda said, swallowing hard. At least she had a reason for the change in handwriting - he must have had one of the nurses help. “I got your letter.” She moved into the room, closing the door behind her.  

 

For a moment, Héctor looked almost happy, almost hopeful, then he tensed, his shoulders dropping. “You shouldn’t have come, mi am- _Imelda_.” His voice was rough, and Imelda wondered if that was because of the burns.

 

“I came to see why you sent me the letter,” Imelda responded, walking closer to the bed. With each step, she could see more and more details, like how his hand was trembling against the sheets, the labored way he breathed, how _weak_ he looked. “And now that I see you, I want to take you home.”

 

There was a pause as Héctor stared ahead, as if afraid to even look in her direction. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said quietly. “You don’t need this, Imelda. I’m offering you a divorce. You should take it.”

 

“And what if I don’t want one,” Imelda asked just as quietly, gently seating herself on the bed next to him.

 

Héctor choked on something like a sob. “Why wouldn’t you?” he demanded, turning in her general direction. “ _Look at me_.”

 

“I am- ” Imelda started, but Hector continued as though he hadn’t heard her.

 

“I can’t _see_ you. I can’t see _anything_. I can’t play guitar, I can’t make shoes, I can’t be _what you need_. Not anymore.”  

 

His hands were clenched so tight, Imelda was worried he’d hurt himself. “You can be my husband, and Coco’s Papá. That’s good enough for me,” Imelda said, forcing him to unclench one of his hands so she could hold it. He flinched at her touch, and Imelda almost regretted it. Almost, until his hand wrapped around hers like a lifeline.    

 

“A worthless husband, and a worthless Papà.” His voice was flat, and he sounded exhausted. “Just like I’m a worthless friend.”

 

Imelda’s breath caught in her throat. “Where _is_ Ernesto…?” She had thought it odd that Ernesto wasn’t with her husband, but she didn’t know what was going on. But Héctor’s voice when he said that. He sounded _defeated_.

 

Héctor snorted. “Ernesto is the one who did this.” He waved at his face. Up close, the scars seemed even worse. “He got away, but the police said they were able to save my things, including my guitar and my music book. As if they’re any good to me now.”

 

“Why did he...” Imelda couldn’t make herself finish the sentence.

 

“I wanted to go home. I just... I wanted to go home,” Héctor said, dropping his face into his hand. “He was angry at me, and he threw _something_ at me. I wasn’t...” He trailed off with a shrug, as his voice dropped to a whisper. “He said it was my fault.”

 

Imelda had to stop herself from cursing; she didn’t think Héctor would be able to tell she meant it for Ernesto and not him. “Of course not,” Imelda said instead, for lack of anything else to say. Héctor was trembling, and Imelda realized he was crying. “You can still come home,” she said, wishing he would turn and face her so she could embrace him properly. Wishing that she could touch him without him flinching. Instead, all she could do was hold his hand tighter.

 

“You and Coco deserve so much better.” he said, as if it was a great confession. “Look at me, I can’t do _anything_.” If he hadn’t sounded so sincere, Imelda would have been angry with him. He genuinely thought he was no longer worthy of being her husband.

 

“We can figure it out,” Imelda said, turning his face towards her gently, her thumb brushing over the edge of the blistered skin. “But I promised when I married you that we would stay together. Until death do us part. I took you to be my husband, _no matter what_. In the bad times, as well as the good. If our roles were switched, would you leave me?”

 

“No!  I...” Héctor looked genuinely startled, as though the thought had never even occurred to him. “No, but -”

 

“No buts,” Imelda said, gentle but firm. “I’m taking you home.” She leaned in and kissed him. “Everything will work out.”  

 

Héctor’s answering grin was bitter. “I hope you don’t regret it.”  

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ernesto threw a bottle of lye in Héctor's face. 
> 
> Don't google lye burns. 
> 
> _Don't_.


	7. The Tail of the Musician

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Werewolf!AU AU | What is this | I don't even know
> 
> \---
> 
> Héctor gets back to Imelda... Different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I blame the discord.

Héctor wasn’t exactly sure how long he’d been walking. It couldn’t have been _that_ long; the seasons hadn’t changed yet, but he’s lost track of time. And it didn’t help how _tired_ he was, eating what he could off the land, and sleeping far more than he planned. Luckily he knew his way home, and sometime he could sneak aboard a freight train, but he never felt comfortable riding the trains very long. Sooner or later, the train would be near people, and he was trying to avoid people.

 

Clutching the sheet more tightly about himself, Héctor hoped that the shipping company wouldn’t get in _too_ much trouble for his theft. Covering himself from head to toe, in case he ran into someone, he hoped desperately that he was hallucinating. That whatever Ernesto had slipped into his drink was just playing tricks on his brain.

 

And yet, the fear was still there. The caution.

 

And he was so _close_ to home.

 

But there was a sunny patch on the ground, and with a sigh, he resigned himself to curling up, and taking a quick nap. It wasn’t that the sleep was unwelcome, per se, but each and every delay was maddening. At least the spot in the sun was cozy.  

 

\-----

 

He finally reached Santa Cecilia in the afternoon, though he waited for the sun to go down before sneaking into the city. There was a creek, and he managed to catch a couple of fish for his dinner as he waited for darkness to fall. He wished he knew what to say to Imelda. He would probably have to leave her, of course, but at the very least she deserved to know _why_. To know that it wasn’t _her_ , that either Héctor’s mind was broken, or that Ernesto had done something truly _inhuman_ , and in either event, she deserved better.

 

Pulling the stolen sheet around him closer, he was grateful, at least, that he hadn’t finished the whole shot Ernesto had given him. It had tasted _nasty_ , and he had spit out at least half of it. Ernesto had his guitar, which was unfortunate, but Héctor had managed to keep his music book. He’d been tempted to burn it out of spite, but he never had quite figured out how to start a fire, and anyway, maybe he could give it to Coco, to remember him by.

 

At last it was dark, and he made his way out of the forest. It was late at night, late enough that most people would be asleep. There’d still be some traffic, near the bars, but he could avoid those easily. Sneaking through the town, he made his way to his - _their_ \- home. There was a sign at the front; it looked like Imelda had been serious about learning to make shoes. He hoped that her business was going well. He fumbled at the door before it finally opened, and he stepped inside. The house was mostly silent, and he took a moment to take a deep breath.

 

He still had no idea what he was going to say.

 

Before he could make a decision about what to do next, the choice was made for him. As he flinched, eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden light from the gas lamp being held by - “Imelda?”

 

There was a pause as Imelda stared at him, gas lamp in one hand, iron in the other.

 

“...Héctor?”

 

* * *

 

Of all the things she had been expecting when she heard the sound of _someone in her house_ , Héctor was honestly not one of them. Imelda lowered her arm, no longer needing to use the iron as a potential weapon. She admittedly had panicked, when she heard the fiddling at the door, and had expected the worst.

 

But no, it was just Héctor’s… Voice. She would recognize that voice anywhere, even when she couldn’t see his face, nor the rest of him, as wrapped up in - and was that a bedsheet? - as the figure was.

 

“It’s me.” Héctor said, and she watched as he clutched the bedsheet closer to him.

 

“Do you know how long it’s been?” Imelda hissed, keep her voice low, as the rest of her family was asleep. She was been the only one up, as she had been finishing up an order for a pair of boots, and she wanted to keep it that way. “No letters, no telegrams, _nothing_ , and then you just show back up in the middle of the night, you dressed like that?”

 

She couldn’t see his face, but Imelda could see the way Héctor tensed up. “Can we talk about this in private?” He asked, and his voice sounded strained.

 

Imelda frowned, but nodded, watching with pursed lips as Héctor joined her in the doorway, still wearing the damned bed sheet. They walked to the bedroom, Imelda still holding the gas lamp, and Héctor padding silently next to her. Once inside, Imelda shut the door, and put the lamp down. “Héctor. Explain. Now.”

 

“You were right.” That wasn’t what she was expecting to hear. “About Ernesto, you were right.”

 

Ah.

 

“He put something in a drink. I don’t know what.” Imelda covered her mouth with her hand. Before she could ask what, Héctor was continuing. "I’ve either gone mad, or it did… _Something_.”

 

“Héctor?” Imelda asked, sitting down on her bed, and gesturing for Héctor to join her.

 

“I might be going mad.” Héctor warned again, trembling a little, but he joined Imelda on the bed.

 

“Let me be the judge of that.” She paused. “Is that why…?” She gestured at the cloth. Héctor nodded. “May I?” She grasped at the sheet.

 

Héctor caught her wrist, and her eyes widened at his nails. They were thick, and sharp, and came to a curved point. He let go of her wrist like she was burning him, and he carefully reached up to lower the makeshift hood.

 

Imelda stared. It took her a moment to really grasp what she was seeing. On the top of Héctor’s head were two, very large cat ears. She gasped, and they twitched in her direction. She longed to touch them. They looked _incredibly_ soft, covered in dark fur as they were. They were, in a word, _adorable_.

 

He was staring at her. His eyes were no longer a soft dark brown. Instead they were a [warm](https://www.catster.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/09/600-400-gold-eyes-close-up.png) [copper](http://www.painetworks.com/photos/ft/ft0829.JPG). His pupils were no longer circular, but instead had contracted into thin slits. He was staring at her, and he looked _terrified_. His breaths were short, and shallow, and she blinked quizzically. Were those _fangs_? “Open your mouth a little?” She asked, and Héctor complied, though he looked at her confused. Those _were_ fangs. Héctor had little fangs. Oh _dios_. “Is there anything else?” Imelda asked, faintly.

 

“So I’m not crazy.” Héctor said glumly. “You see these too.” He reached up to run his hand through his hair, hit one of his ears, and frowned. “There is one more thing.” He reached down behind him, and pulled out-

 

“Is that a _tail_?” Imelda almost squeaked on the last word. It was a stupid question, it was _obviously_ a tail. Long and fluffy, it looked _incredibly_ soft.

 

“Yes.”

 

“ _Madre de Dios_.”

 

Héctor turned red, and dropped his head into his hands. “Yes.” He paused, then looked back up at her. “You’re taking this a lot better then I would have thought.” Imelda raised an eyebrow at him, and he added, “I was expecting more screaming.”

 

“I’m going to wake up in the morning and freak out,” Imelda promised, as her hand twitched, and she bit her lip. “Can I touch…?” She asked, reaching up towards his head.

 

Héctor stared at her and swallowed hard. “If you want to.”

 

Imelda very much did want to. She knew she was coming at this more than a little deliriously, but she was still having a hard time believing what she was seeing. Reaching up, she sunk her hands into the hair? Fur? Around the base of the ear. It was just as soft as it looked, and she found herself giggling in spite of all that had happened. Héctor had stopped being _as_ nervous, though he was still tense. She pulled her hands out of his hair, and ignored the small “meep” that came out of Héctor’s throat. It seemed, by the red staining his cheeks, that he wasn’t expecting that noise either. Imelda stood up, and carefully started to unwrap the sheet from Héctor, frowning at the state of his clothing, and his lack of shoes. It seemed like he’d tried to keep things together as long as he could but…

 

Turning to her dresser, she pulled out some clean clothes for Héctor to sleep in, and tossed them on the bed. “Change into these. We’ll figure this,” she waved a hand to indicate him, “out in the morning.”

 

“I can leave -” Héctor started, though he still pulled off the torn up mariachi jacket.  

 

“I said we’ll figure it out in the morning.” Imelda repeated, changing into her own night clothes. Behind her, she could hear Hector doing the same. Turning around, she had to suppress another giggle. The night clothes weren’t especially hilarious, but between the ears, and the tail twitching behind him, he looked _adorable_. Then she stopped, and frowned; she had seen that behavior on Pepita, it meant he was nervous. Maybe? She wasn’t sure how much control he had over the tail’s movements.

 

Getting him into bed was the easy part, honestly. Imelda wasn’t sure what kind of reception he’d been expecting, but he looked so _baffled_ by everything that he just did what she asked without hesitation. Putting out the gaslamp, she walked to her bed, sliding under the covers next to him. He was stiff as a board, and she could see the glow of his eyes in the reflected moonlight through their window.  

 

“I’d like to wake up and have this all be a dream,” Héctor murmured, staring at the ceiling.

 

“Then we’d better get to sleep,” Imelda whispered, the day catching up with her. It was going to be hard to go to sleep, though, with him in bed next to her, and as tense as he was. Then, she had an idea. “Face me,” she said in the quiet. There was a pause, then Héctor had turned towards her. Luckily the cat ears were high enough on his head that he could face her without them getting smashed against the pillow. She reached over, and started to scritch around the base of one of his ears, ignored the “mrrrrp?” she startled out of him. Slowly, Héctor began to lean into the massage she was giving him, relaxing as she continued to work her fingers into the delineation between hair and fur.

 

A rumbling noise filled the air, and for a moment she wondered when Héctor had started snoring before she realized… Héctor was _purring_. She debated bringing it up, but decided against it. It wasn’t a bad sound, after all, and she was so _very_ sleepy...

  



End file.
